


Built on Old Bones

by AwayLaughing (orphan_account)



Series: All In The Family [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Off-screen Character Death, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/AwayLaughing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Kirkland rises to the top of the organized crime world in a sea of blood and a rain of fire - making deals with the proverbial devil and bringing down anyone he has to along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Built on Old Bones

**Camberwell, Southwark, London, 1997**

  
“Very good boy,” the man chuckled, not at all phased by the knife digging into his ribs, “Morgana sent you then?” The boy was small and dirty, with a thin pale face and tousled blond hair. His green eyes were narrowed in anger, but his hand shook slightly. “Nervous?”

The boy scowled at that, hand tightening, pricking the man enough to draw blood, “no.” he said stubbornly, “I'm not.” The boy had a working class accent, not cockney but distinctive nonetheless, and the mans smile widened, white teeth flashing against tan skin.

“Did she tell you who I am?” the boy hesitated there, and the man laughed. “She wouldn't have, the lying bitch,” chuckling his smile morphed into something more predatory. “I'm Romolo Pagano,” the boy blinked at him before going even whiter, eyes wide. “Ah,” Romolo murmured, gently grabbing the boys wrist, “you do know me.”

“Yeah,” the boy said, “I do, so what?”

“If you know who I am, then you must know you've been set up,” when Arthur gulped Romolo smiled, kneeling down, fingers still wrapped around the skinny wrist. “Speak child,” the boy trembled again, eyes guarded, “why would she want to be rid of someone so young, hm?”

The boy looked away, green eyes dimming, “I got in a fight with her berk of a son,” he said sullenly, and Romolo chuckled.

“And you won?”

“Cor,” the boy said, looking offended, “broke his nose.” Romolo laughed for real at that, and the boy looked a little pleased, “Mordred's a right gob-shite, and he's grabby too.”

“Grabby?” the Italian man asked, a dark eyebrow raising and the boy nodded furiously, crossing his arms.

“Not me,” the boy clarified, “but he's a nonce when it comes to the younger girls,” he shook his head, “bleeding twat.”

Romolo hummed, studying the boy for another moment before standing, “what is your name, amore?”

“Arthur,” the boy said shyly, “I've done it now,” he added, kicking at a small pebble, “she'll have my hide you know.”

Romolo chuckled at that, lacing strong tan fingers into matted sandy hair, “I don't know about that,” he said softly, “you could come with me.”

The boy gave him a dubious look, green eyes wary, “I could,” he agreed, “what's in it for me?”

Next thing the Londoner knew he was on the ground, ratty teeshirt pushed up to his arm pits, revealing a too thin chest and bony hips. “No more of these,” he said, voice a whisper as he gently traced a bruise just under his rib cage, “or these,” he continued, fingers running over a raised scar on his hip, causing a wince, “no more pain.” They stand there a moment, Romolo' hand now on the thin jaw, thumb pushed between cracked and bitten lips. “I'll take good care of you,” he promised, and Arthur paused only momentarily before biting down hard on the mans thumb.

“You better,” is all he said, licking away the blood that had been smeared on his lips when the other man pulled away. Romolo laughed, shaking his hand a bit as if to simply dislodge the pain.

“You and I shall be brilliant Arthur,” he said, and something dark in Arthur's eyes flashed briefly, pleased by the new promise.

**St. James' Park, London, 2000**  
  
“Did you have to make such a bloody mess?” Arthur groused as he watched Francis calmly wipe the blood of his dagger off his shirt.  
  
“No,” the French boy said, “but it is more fun this way, n'est pas?” The grin he gave Arthur went straight to the fifteen year old boys groin, making him scowl all the more.  
  
“Of course,” he grumbled, looking around suspiciously, “and you did it in such a fucking public place too,” he said, eyeing the cluster of austere buildings just across the way, “children play here you know.” Francis chuckled at that, finally sheathing his little knife, turning to actually look at his friend.  
  
“Some things are unavoidable,” he said simply, “if he'd known he was going to die he may have been more considerate and walked through an alley,” the roguish grin stayed on his face, “but he didn't and protection from prying eyes is key in something like this.” Arthur rolled his eyes, not even bothering to push the dead body under a shrub, instead just walking down the path, checking to make sure he wasn't trailing any blood. Francis caught up to him easily, having taken a growth spurt a year ago, slinging a warm arm around Arthur's shoulders. “When are we expected back?” he asked, sounding deceptively innocent and Arthur snorted.  
  
“Who cares?” is all he said, and Francis gave him a sly grin as they exited the park. “Why?” Francis said nothing, instead opting to gently grab an earlobe in his teeth, tugging sightly before smearing his lips against Arthur's cheek.  
  
“Then how about we find an alley way, for privacy?” Arthur shuddered at the feeling of a hand trailing down his ribs to his ass, kneading gently, and Arthur responded by all but smashing their lips together, pulling Francis down to his height.  
  
Francis tasted a little like blood mixed with wine and dark chocolate, and Arthur groaned at the familiar taste, pressing closer, not at all fazed by the slight dampness of his and Francis' bloody shirts. “Tu es agréable?” the teen, originally from Paris, wagered, and Arthur, who usually pretended he had no clue what the other boy was saying laughed, intoxicated by the taste of Francis and the thrill of the chase and the tingle of power he'd felt when the man had begged for his life.  
  
“Fuck yes.”

 

**Berlin, 2000**  
  
The boy they left to guard Arthur was not particularly tall or muscled, but Arthur could tell after only a minute of exposer to the other that he was brutal and as blood thirsty as anything. Arthur sat calmly in his chair, not nervous despite being in what basically amounted to enemy territory when the metal door to his right creaked open and a tall brunet stuck his head in, muttering something in German.  
  
“Ja,” Arthur's guard said, “er ist bestimmt.” The brunet nodded at that, saying something else before leaving again.  
  
“Dare I ask?” Arthur queried, shifting a little in his bonds. The German gave him a grin, something wild and sharp which made Arthur's pants tighten.  
  
“He wanted to know if you really are one of Romolo's protégés,” came the reply, the boys blue eyes flashing, “I told him you definitely are.”  
  
Arthur didn't ask how he knew, instead changing topics. “You're English is very good,” he offered and the older teen gave him a wry look.  
  
“Picked it up in Amsterdam,” he said, and Arthur raised a brow.  
  
“You're Dutch?” The other snorted, looking disgusted.  
  
“No,” he said, “German, born in Frankfurt, on the Oder.” Arthur had no actual clue where that was so he simply nodded, studying the German some more.  
  
“You're very pale,” he noted and the others eyes widened in shock, thin fingers coming up to tug a piece of hair into his own view.  
  
“Oh wow,” he said breathlessly, “I hadn't noticed,” the sarcasm was obvious and Arthur scowled at it, expression changing to shock when the other stood. “Why?” the other asked him, “you like it?” Arthur blinked at the question, suddenly wary as the other circled him, a pale hand coming up to his jaw as the other stopped behind him. “Well?”  
  
“I suppose,” he admitted, shuddering slightly at the feel of ragged nails, obviously bitten, scraping down his neck. “Yeah I do.” The German laughed at that, a sound which managed to be both sibilant and growling, pressing his nose to Arthur's temple, mouth aligned with his ear.  
  
“I knew you would,” he admitted, “after all, it's why my English is so good.” His hand trailed down, even as he bit down on Arthur's ear, coming to palm Arthur's half hardened cock. Arthur tried to buck into the hand, swearing when he failed and groaning more at the teens chuckle.  
  
“Isn't this against some sort of rule?” Arthur asked, shuddering again when white teeth sank into the muscles of his neck, the boy laughed again, simply pulling down Arthur's zipper.  
  
Arthur was a bit embarrassed by how quickly he came after that, only a few strokes of a callused palm later and the other teen was licking Arthur's cum from his fingers, not bothering to clean his captive. A polite cough came from the door and a young woman with long brown hair smiled at him, one eyebrow raised.   
  
“Gilbert,” she said, presumably that was his name, and then proceeded to say something in a language Arthur couldn't place. The German snorted, walking toward her, pausing at the door.  
  
“Willkommen in Berlin,” Gilbert said with a chuckle, “I think we will soon be working together, Arthur.” The door closed at that leaving Arthur alone in the dark room.  
  
“Well then you could have given me a damn tissue!” he called at the door. Naturally there was no reply. ** **  
****

****

****South Kensington, London, Oct. 31st, 2001****  
  
“Mio caro, must you smoke in the house?” Arthur didn't turn from the window, still perched on the window seat, half smoked cigarette in hand.  
  
“The post-coital cigarette is a time honoured tradition,” Arthur said evenly, and Romolo sat up, sheets falling to his waist.  
  
“I don't really care,” the Mafioso said, “put it out.” Arthur took another drag of the thin white stick before flicking it out the window into the foggy night. Wordlessly he bent down, picking up a plain white button up and slipping it on, leaving the collar undone. A pair of pants quickly followed and soon he was headed out the door. “Where are you going?” the older man asked, and Arthur picked up the baseball bat which lay propped against the wall, hidden by the door.  
  
“I've another time honoured tradition to reenact,” he said simply, “it is Halloween after all.” Romolo gave him an indulgent smile at that, shaking his curly head.  
  
“Don't get caught,” he called as Arthur made his way into the hall. Arthur didn't answer.  
  
Outside he quickly crossed the busy Kensington road into Hyde park, approaching a group of young men who were lounging against the inner section of the grand entrance. With them was an austere looking man with long blond hair and cold eyes who raised a hand, immediately silencing the quiet whispers of the group.  
  
“Catch,” Arthur said simply, throwing a set of keys at the man. He did, easily, and raised an eyebrow, “gold key is the front door,” Arthur told him, “they key to Romolo's room has the red on it. His nephews are probably in bed now and the house is empty save Desrosier and a few maids.”  
  
“Rooms?” the man asked and Arthur shoved his hands in his jacket pocket, wishing he'd been able to pack without looking suspicious. Cash and a newly minted passport would have to make do.  
  
“The twins' room is the second door on left once you go up the main stairs, western hall, Desrosier is the first door in the eastern hall and Romolo is at the end of the western hall.”  
  
“And the maids?” the speaker was one of the eldest in the group with a mess of light brown hair. He was probably in his mid twenties though Arthur didn't know for sure.   
  
“Either in the kitchen or the room behind it,” he said, “you can get to the kitchen by going through the dinning room, to the right once you get in through the front door.  
  
“'Nd if we go through th' back?” another man, one with glasses and cropped blond hair who Arthur was fairly sure was the infamous Berwald, a former bounty hunter and a truly terrifying individual.  
  
“It'll be the first room you enter,” he said and the man nodded, either in thanks or acknowledgement Arthur wasn't sure.  
  
Finally the leader, Reiner Beilschmidt, a former military officer who'd been dishonourably discharged due to what had obviously been a framing, and Gilbert's adoptive father, pried apart the key ring, passing one to the smallest blond of the group, another to Gilbert and another to Berwald, keeping the front door key and the one to Romolo's room himself.  
  
“Vash,” he said to the youngest of th group, “you will retrieve Remo's sons, take them to where we are staying, Gilbert, deal with Desrosier, Oxensteirna and Køhler will handle the help. I want explosives in the basement and accelerante in the kitchen, living room and halls, understand?” Everyone nodded and Reiner turned to Arthur, “if you are still in London when the sun comes up I will find you and I will kill you,” he old the other simply and Arthur scowled but nodded.  
  
The group dispersed after that, heading off to the house Arthur had lived in for the past four years, approaching from various directions, all of them separating save Oxensteirna and Køhler. Arthur waited five or so minutes before turning and quickly making his way through Hyde park, his watch telling him he had about forty minutes to catch his metro out of London. As he turned, he pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag. As he exhaled, the sky light up momentarily, a deafening bang surrounding the usually silent suburb.  
  
Arthur did not turn around.

**Glasgow International Airport, Nov. 1St, 2001**  
  
 _“At roughly eleven fourty five pm last night the people of South Kensington were awoken by an explosion at 21 De Vere Gardens, home of the famous philanthropist Romolo Pagano. Pagano moved to London from Rome ten years ago. During his time in London he was well known for supporting sports groups for underprivileged children as well as donating thousands worth in textbooks to some of the poorest schools in Greater London._  
  
He is also known for his adoption of his two nephews, Feliciano and Lovino Pagano. The twins were orphaned after their father's brutal death at the hands of what is now assumed to be the East Rhine Cooperative.  
  
The Cooperative was, until eleven years ago nothing more than small time smuggling rings and protection racketeers, however in the spring of 1990 officials in Frankfurt, Berlin and Kiel all noticed a sharp rise in illegal gambling, arms and drug smuggling and money laundering. The person suspected of running the ERC was Reiner Beilschmidt, former military officer.  
  
Beilschmidt's body was found floating in the Thames this morning at five am, throat slit. He is officially the only suspect in the explosion, which claimed the lives of Pagano and his nephews as well as his house keeping staff, his charge sixteen year old Arthur Charles and former charge twenty year old Francis Desrosier.  
  
Charles was born in Hackney to Thomas Charles, his mother unknown. His father passed away when he was five to...”  
  
Arthur tuned out the woman on the T.V, mulling over the information of Reiner's death. It was obviously one of his own, Oxensteirna's past as a bounty hunter made him a possible culprit, but at the same time Arthur knew Gilbert had major issues with the man he'd refused to discuss.  
  
“Two bourbons please,” came a familiar voice, smooth as velvet, and Arthur turned, eyes landing on Francis, looking as whole and hale as ever.  
  
“Bloody cockroach,” Arthur grumbled, “should have known you'd escape.”  
  
“You are secretly ecstatic to see me cher,” the man replied, smirking, “I can tell.”  
  
“I'd have preferred to find out I had syphilis,” Arthur told him curtly, mostly to cover up the fact Francis was right.  
  
“Hmm,” Francis agreed, accepting the two shots of bourbon, passing one over to Arthur who downed it in one gulp. “I think it was Gilbert,” Francis said, gesturing to the woman who was now talking about the suspected fates of the missing Pagano children, “Gilbert is so full of hate,” he told the other sadly, “so much I'm not even sure he can love.” Arthur said nothing, watching as they showed a picture or Romolo and his nephews at a park a year ago, before standing. “Mon cher,” Francis said, grabbing his arm, “ton nom?”   
  
Arthur paused, only briefly before patting Francis' hand. “Kirkland,” was all he offered and Francis smiled.  
  
“Bonnefoy,” he said in return before turning back to the bar, not bothering to find where Arthur was going. He would find him later.


End file.
